


The Witch Under the Hill

by DisaLanglois



Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: Action/Adventure, Angst, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-04-25
Updated: 2011-05-07
Packaged: 2017-10-18 16:04:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 10
Words: 13,785
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/190632
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DisaLanglois/pseuds/DisaLanglois
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>For the first time in years, Arthur rides out on a mission without Merlin at his side.  The enemy waiting for him will be the most dangerous opponent he will ever face.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue

Prologue

Arthur sent couriers riding the length and breadth of the land. He notified his garrisons to keep their eyes open. He sent messages to the outlying towns and villages. He re-routed patrols along the most likely roads, but they saw no signs along the lonely forest tracks. He even sent official requests to neighbouring courts, trying not to plead too obviously, but the returning diplomatic pouches reported nothing.

Day after day, no replies came back, no clues.

It was as if the world had simply swallowed Merlin.

On the third week, purely as a temporary measure, he engaged a full complement of servants. He had an arming squire to tend his arms, a groom for his horses, and a valet for his chambers; three men to do the duties of one. They were all willing and competent, and discreet, but all of them knew they were replacing someone who could not be replaced.

Gaius went about his duties grey-faced and tired. No-one suggested to him that he should take on another apprentice.

On the sixth week, his father ordered him to stop searching. “You have duties beyond looking for your servant. I understand that he was a good and loyal servant, but this has gone on long enough.”

“He was more than a servant, Father. He was a good friend, and a trusted confidant.”

“The loss of a confidant is always hard. I understand that, Arthur, but you cannot abandon your duties to the rest of the kingdom. This business of re-routing couriers has to stop.”

“Yes, Father.”

The last reports of Merlin were sketchy, but Arthur had been able to piece some picture together. He had walked out of the Citadel on the morning of the sixteenth, with Gaius’s list of needed herbs rolled up his satchel, and permission from Arthur to be gone for four days. He’d spent the night at the inn in Greenwood. He’d been seen along the road to Willowy Bend, laughing at Sir Blair the Serious, and then running away from that knight’s furious men-at-arms. A man matching his description had been seen in a tavern on the edge of the Haghorn Woods, listening to the tales of a minstrel.

And then … nothing. That was the last that was heard from him. It was as if he had vanished.

Perhaps he lay in a ditch somewhere, murdered. Perhaps he had been captured by slavers. Perhaps the men of the North had captured him, and carried him off in their long-ships. Perhaps he had been taken suddenly by a pestilence along the road, and staggered off into the trees, to die alone and unseen. It was all possible.

Arthur had no way of knowing, but as the weeks turned into months, the cold dread became greater in him that Merlin was not coming back.


	2. Mission

Arthur finished reading the letter from King Godric, and set the parchment down. His father’s eyes met his across the table.

“Were it anyone but Godric,” Uther said, setting his goblet down, “I would disbelieve him, but he and I have been allies and friends for too many years. He has nothing to gain from lying to me.”

“Olaf or Alined might have taken our travellers, but not Godric,” Arthur said. “And now Godric says he has lost ten knights in that same area. If it is not Godric taking these people, and it is not us, then something else is afoot in those forests.”

“And you believe this is the same place where your own manservant disappeared five months ago?”

“Six months ago, but yes. And I sent out Sir Bryand and four knights to investigate three months ago, and I have had no reports from him.”

“Merchants are growing reluctant to pass through that area. It cannot be allowed to continue. I want you to take a sizable force out there, find the perpetrators, and put an end to them.”

“I will leave in the morning, Father,” Arthur agreed.

“You will take care, Arthur. A force capable of taking down fifteen armoured knights is an enemy to be reckoned with. I suspect the hand of sorcery in this. You will show them no mercy when you find them.”

… …

Arthur rode at the head of a column of twenty-seven riders: men-at-arms, knights, and squires. They did not know what enemy they faced, so from the third day they rode in full battle array, eyes alert, and hands always close to weapons.

His new squire rode at his side, in the place where Merlin would have been. He was competent at his duties, but Arthur could already tell that he would not make a Knight of Camelot. He rode nervously, communicating his anxiety to his horse, clearly wishing himself elsewhere. He would be useless in a fight.

Merlin had been useless in a fight, too, but at least he had never for a second shied away from one.

… …

The village lay buried in the forest. It was just a few shacks around a central common, and exactly three fields. There was no hall, no church, not even a tavern. He wondered if anyone owned the land, or if it had simply been clawed out of the virgin forest by these people, making them nominally freemen and not serfs.

He led his column through the common, scattering chickens, and drew rein where a little deputation had already gathered in front of a well.

As one, the men, and a few women, bowed to him. “The village of Outer Haghorn bids you welcome, my lord,” the eldest of the women said.

“I thank you for your welcome,” he replied. “I am Prince Arthur, your Crown Prince. And we are on a quest to discover and destroy whatever has been stealing innocent travellers in these woods.”

The grandiose words impressed them, because a little murmur rose up briefly around him.

“Sir. My lord. Your highness…” the woman said, and glanced over her shoulder at her neighbours for support. “We are only poor people, and we have no tavern to put up your highness.”

“It is no matter, my good woman.” He bowed from his saddle, as if to a lady, and raised his voice that that all could hear him. “We are battle-hardened warriors to a man,” well, perhaps his squire wasn’t, but that was more specificity than the occasion needed, “and all we need is space in your fallow field to pitch our tents and picket our mounts this night. Your goodwill is all the hospitality we require.”

The worried lines on the weather-beaten faces disappeared, and he made a mental note to encourage his men to spend a few coins here. These were desperately poor people; so poor they made Ealdor look like part of the Hanseatic League. In fact, he decided, he would engage one of the young hunters to act as a guide.

That night, he spoke to the headwoman in his tent.

“Yes, Sire,” she said. “We don’t get many travellers here. Not even the peddlars come out so far, but we’ve heard the stories too. About wagons disappearing on the roads, knights going into the hill and never coming back.”

“What hill?” he asked, immediately alert.

The hill was a mound, she said, a barrow, under which lived a great and terrible witch. Many noble knights had been seen riding to face her and never come back. “It is said, Sire, that they go into the hill, and the witch eats their souls.”

She didn’t know which hill, and she didn’t think anyone in her village knew either, not even the hunters. At this point, she suddenly bridled, and went a little pale.

Yes, Arthur thought to himself, these people were poor. They probably hunted the royal deer. “I understand,” he said. “Hunters go further into the forest than anyone else, in order to protect the secrets of their art. Tell me about this wagon.”

“It was a merchant’s wagon, Sire, full of treasure and precious things, and disappeared on the high road. Gone, swallowed up into the trees – horses, drivers, guards and all, and not a mark to tell where it went. The witch took it.”

“Can one of your hunters show us the road the wagon was on when it disappeared?” he asked.

“My nephew Ulfric can show you. He is the finest hunter in the village.”

“Have you lost any people yourself?”

“No, Sire.”

After she had left, escorted to her own door by Arthur’s squire in the manner of a Camelot lady, he and Sir Leon sat and talked. “Sorcery, my lord, as your father suspected,” Sir Leon said.

“It’s hard to imagine any mortal hand that could hide a whole wagon so thoroughly that even half-starved peasants couldn’t find it.”

“A wagon full of treasure and precious things?” Sir Leon asked, frowning. “Surely we would have heard of that?”

“In a place like this, _ploughshares_ are precious things.”

“My lord?” a knight came in through the tent flap.

“Yes, Sir Elvin?”

“We have discovered a horse, my lord.”

“You discovered … a horse. _Really._ Might I point out to you that you are a knight, and therefore horses should not come as a novelty to you?”

Sir Leon huffed. The young knight pursed his lips, acknowledging the jest but not finding any mirth in it. “It is Sir Bryand’s horse, my lord.”

… …

They examined the horse by lamplight, in the company of the peasant in whose pigsty it had been found. It was a blocky bay gelding with a broad blaze and one wall eye. It was also the only beast of burden of any kind in the village.

“We found him, Sire,” the peasant said nervously. “He was wandering in the woods.”

Arthur couldn’t blame them for not reporting a stray horse. If these fields were tilled, they were tilled with hoes – literally backbreaking labour. What they really needed was an ox, but he would have to see to that later. He patted the horse’s neck. “We cannot take him with us,” he said to the peasant. “Take care of him, use him for whatever purpose you see fit, and we will retrieve him when we return.”

He led Sir Leon out of the pigsty. “Sir Bryand’s horse,” he murmured.

“Unquestionably, but where is Sir Bryand?”

“Sir Bryand wouldn’t have left his horse behind of his own accord,” he said. “We know at least one thing. He hasn’t simply been a little tardy with his despatches. Something happened to him.”

… …

They left the village the next morning, early, escorted by young Ulfric. The column wound its way along a narrow track between the trees, and by late afternoon joined a road.

“It was around here, Sire,” Ulfric said, stopping. “The wagon was taken here.”

“Here? You’re sure?” Arthur looked around, forward at the road, and behind to the column, that had stopped at his hand signal. “I thought there were no tracks.”

“There were tracks, but they led here and just stopped. And there was blood, but it’s washed away now.”

Arthur rode on ahead a little way, the better to get an idea of the place. The trees were dark and forbidding sentries all around, the road was empty, and there was no sound, not even a breeze in the treetops. His men were already beginning to look sidelong around themselves. The growing knowledge that something awful happened here was beginning to work on imaginations already disturbed by last night’s spooky stories.

Even as he looked at them, he saw the first swords being drawn.

“Stop that,” he snapped. “Sir Elvin, Sir John, put away your weapons. Whatever magic happened here, it is long gone.”

He had time to see them look sheepishly at each other. The swords scraped back into their scabbards.

Arthur lifted his reins to ride back to them, when the world appeared to go dark.


	3. The Unexpected Ally

The road went black as great wings blocked out the sky. His horse shrieked. He had time to look up, to see huge talons descending on him.

He felt the saddle’s high cantle hit him in the back as his horse bolted under him. Iron bars wrapped around his body. He was wrenched up, the road spiralling away.

He screamed too, helplessly, as the land grew smaller under his kicking legs. The trees began to skim by, far below, as small as blades of grass. If the dragon dropped him now, he would fall to his death – a preferable fate to being burned alive in its breath. He twisted, trying to get out his dagger. He would drive the point under a talon, and force it to drop him.

“Do not wriggle, young Pendragon!” the deep voice rumbled over his head. “I have no wish to drop you!” The other taloned forefoot came up beneath him, cupping his legs in the centre of its palm. The talons around his body tightened, implacable as the grave, holding him immobile.

“I would rather fall than have fire breathed on me!” he screamed back defiantly over the wind of flight.

“I have no wish to breathe fire upon you either, young Pendragon. We have matters of great importance to discuss, you and I.”

It knew his name, then. Arthur held still, pondering. Did that mean this was the same dragon as the one from Camelot? He had always believed that that was the last one left, and that it was dead. Well, whether it was the same or not, it still implied that someone had lied to him.

The rhythm of the wings changed, from up-and-down sweeping to a more urgent beating. He looked down, and realized that they had descended. A rocky hillside was coming up to welcome them.

The dragon backwinged, and clamped its huge hind feet into the hillside to hold itself steady. It came to earth with a thud, on three legs, in a cloud of dust.

Arthur found himself being set down again on his own feet. The talons uncurled, and went away.

He bolted.

He did not get very far. The talons snatched him up into the air before he had gone ten feet, and smacked him down onto the rocky earth on his back. The impact hurt, even through his armour and padding. When he opened his eyes, he found himself lying spread-eagled, with talons pressed all around his body like a cage. Two ivory crescents rose up from the ground on either side of his head.

The dragon’s immense head lowered, to peer at him between its talons with its golden eyes. “When I said that we had matters to discuss, I meant it,” it rumbled slowly. “And you will not, I believe, need this.”

The other forefoot came over, reached down, and picked his sword out from his scabbard, with the delicacy of a lady picking up a needle in too-long fingernails. He watched his weapon go out of sight, helplessly.

“Now, let us talk.” The dragon lowered itself onto its belly, as if settling in for a cosy chat.

Its palm rested snugly on his armoured chest, pressing him against the shale. The least shift in the tons of weight above him, and he would be crushed like a half-formed chick in its egg. He rolled his head from side to side. “Very well, let us talk,” he grated. “I thought I struck you a mortal blow.”

The golden eyes dimmed in a slow blink. “Your servant told you that. But he often tells you things that are not wholly true, or are not the whole of the truth.”

“You talk about him as if he were still alive.”

“Indeed, he is alive, but should you not aid him it would be better if he were not.”

“You speak in riddles!” Arthur snapped. He wriggled, but could not free himself. “Get to the point.”

“Very well, I shall get to the point. You lead your little soldiers to destroy the witch who lives under the hill, who has been stealing away mortal lives.”

“I am.”

“Your aim and mine coincide, young Pendragon. The witch has taken something of great value to me, but without your help, I cannot reclaim it. You wish to destroy the threat to your people, but without my help, you _will not prevail._ ”

The last three words were spoken with a low, descending gravitas. It sounded absolutely certain. The golden eyes were fixed on his, unblinking. When he had been silent for a while, the dragon spoke again. “The witch is old, and evil, and too long steeped in darkness and decay under the hill. Were she stronger, her evil would have reached out into the world before this. But now, she has at her disposal a source of power greater than anything she could have hoped to achieve on her own.”

“A weapon?” Arthur asked.

“A far greater sorcerer, more powerful than any this land has seen in this present age. She holds him under an enchantment, his power harnessed to her malign will. Together, they are stealing away your knights and young people, to weld them into a great army. If she is not stopped, she will over-run this forest, over-run Camelot, and over-run all of Albion. She must be stopped.”

“She must be crazy! All the kings of Albion would ally against her!”

“They will not have time. Her power spreads as a pestilence does. As she defeats one knight, he is corrupted and turned against his fellows.”

“Can’t you stop her?” Arthur asked. His blood had gone cold, and it was not from the stones under his back.

“I cannot. She has an ally who can command my kind.”

“A dragonlord?”

“Just so, young Pendragon.”

Arthur lay on his back and stared at the sky, thinking. “That’s what you mean, when you say she has something of yours.”

“That is why I cannot strike at her directly. I have been ordered to leave the witch’s servants alone, not to return to the hill, and never to name the dragonlord. I cannot disobey the command of a dragonlord. This, you and your father know well.”

Arthur stared up into the golden eyes. “She has taken Merlin as well, hasn’t she? She’s taken him into her army?”

The dragon answered his question with another question. “And what is your choice, young Pendragon? Shall we be allies, against the witch under the hill?”

“Yes. For now, as long as our struggle against the witch goes on.”

“That satisfies me.” The dragon nodded, a slow up-and-down motion of the huge head, incongruous on so fierce a face.

“Now, will you let me get up?” The great talons went away, and he sat up and looked around. “Where did you put my sword?”

“I threw it away down the mountain. You will not have need of it again.”

“Won’t have need of it?” he demanded, exasperated. “How am I to attack a witch without a sword? With my fingers?”

“I have explained to you the reason I need your help,” it rumbled, unperturbed. It lowered its muzzle, regarding him inscrutably. “I have not yet explained to you why you need mine. The witch is building herself an enchanted army, who will do her bidding unknowingly, unconsciously, and your old weapon will not serve. You will need a special blade to fight them, one with power beyond that of mere steel. You need a blade forged in a dragon’s breath.”

“Well, we’re clean out of luck then, aren’t we?” he snapped, irritated. “I have a dragon close at hand, but – oops – no blade. _Somebody_ went and threw it away.”

“Fortunately, such a blade already exists. I will take you to it.”


	4. Weapons and Tactics

The dragon landed in a meadow, and lowered its forefoot so that Arthur could climb out. He had been flatly denied the privilege of travelling on its back, so he had again flown clutched in its fist like a small doll. It was not the most dignified manner of travel for a prince, but at least they weren’t likely to be seen by any passing peasants up there.

Arthur dusted off his surcoat, and worked the strains out of his muscles.

“The blade lies through those trees, in a small hollow,” the dragon rumbled, uncurling a talon to point at a narrow path that led off between slim saplings. “I will wait here.” It folded its forelegs, put its head down on them, and covered itself with its own wings. It appeared, for all intents and purposes, to go to sleep.

Arthur walked away. The path was no more than a strip where many feet had trod the leaf litter flat. He jogged along it, jingling at every step, and wishing he was already armed. He didn’t like the feeling of his empty scabbard slapping against his thigh.

He didn’t have far to go. The path led over the edge of a small, thinly wooded basin, and opened into a clearing. There was a boulder in the centre of the clearing, standing alone, as if dropped there by some absent-minded giant. Two men were already in the clearing, their broad backs turned to him. They were staring at the boulder. By the look of them, they were woodcutters. Two axes leaned against the base of the boulder.

“Hello, hello,” he greeted cheerily.

The two men turned. “Bloody hell, where’d _you_ spring from, then?” one asked, surprised.

A sword stood upright from the boulder, as if it had been sheathed in solid stone. Its blade had been decoratively etched and inlaid with gold, and it shone as if it was polished diligently every day. It looked much too gaudy for Arthur’s taste; a jeweller’s masterpiece, but surely too fancy for real fighting. But the dragon had promised that it was his, and would serve him well.

“The blade was forged for you, young Pendragon, and for you alone,” it had rumbled, but it had steadfastly refused to say why, or by whom.

Well, he would not get it out of there by staring at it. As he walked up, he wondered at the force that could have driven steel into stone with such precision that neither sword nor stone shattered. He wrapped both hands around the hilt, and heaved upwards.

“Good luck, chum, we’ve been trying to pull it out all da- _He-e-ey,_ how’d he do that?”

It came out as if the boulder was made out of dough. He twirled it around his wrist, feeling the weight and reach of it. It fitted him perfectly; a yard of sweet beautiful balance, and so sharp it seemed to sing in the air. He had doubted the dragon’s claim that this was his blade, but it was. Oh, it absolutely was. “Hello-oo,” he crooned at it, delighted.

“How did you _do_ that?” a voice broke into his rapture.

He looked up, to see both woodcutters staring at him. “It’s easy if you know how,” he said, and dropped them a wink. He thrust the lovely sword into his empty scabbard, and trotted off back the way he came.

… ….

The dragon set him down within easy walking of the camp, and downwind so that the horses weren’t spooked. Without further ado or word of farewell, it launched itself into the air and flew away.

To be honest with himself, he was rather relieved to see it go. Its size was intimidating, its cryptic conversation was unsettling, and its motives were murky. It may be an ally now, but it was not his friend; that much he was sure of.

He set off along the road. His men were camped off the road, in a grassy field. He was challenged by his own sentries before he came fully in sight of them, which was very gratifying to their commanding officer. On recognising him, they immediately passed the word for Sir Leon.

“We thought you were lost, my lord!” Sir Leon said, gripping Arthur by his shoulders, relief and pleasure all over his bearded face. “I was about to turn back for Camelot.”

“Turn back!” Arthur said. “No! Never turn back! If I fall, you must still carry out the mission, and this mission above all.”

“How did you escape the dragon?”

“I didn’t. The dragon released me of its own accord. It seems we have an ally in this endeavour. Call the sergeants – I have intelligence on our foe. We are on a quest of more importance than we thought.”

In Sir Leon’s tent, surrounded by his senior knights, he explained what he had learned about the witch under the hill.

“Enchanted knights…” mused Sir Leon.

“Not only enchanted knights, but our own comrades-in-arms, under her spell. We cannot wait for support from King Godric – we have to attack now, before she grows in strength.”

“We have faced enchanted knights before, and we sent them packing,” one of the older knights growled. “This bitch will wish she stayed in her hole.”

The rumble of agreement from the assembled men stirred Arthur’s blood. There were only twenty-seven of them, but with men like these he could take on anything. He felt hugely proud of them.

“Now, remember,” he cautioned. “Our objective is to put an end to the witch, or to her servant. They are our true foes, not her knights. We cannot let ourselves be distracted by who we may face. Strike true, and to the heart. We ride at midnight, and attack at first light.” The rumble of assent was deeper this time, eager, almost animal. He drew the sword, and held it up. “For Camelot!”


	5. Attacking the Hill

Attacking the hill

It was a truth universally acknowledged, that cavalry was useless for attacking fortifications, and worse than useless for attacking holes in the ground. Therefore, the knights left their mounts under a small guard made up of the squires and the village hunters, and went forward on foot.

Arthur had divided his men into three groups. He took seven men with him to attack the east tunnel. Sir Leon and another seven marched around to the south tunnel, and Sir George the Elder took a third group of seven in a wide sweep to attack the hill from the western side. They would converge on the hill simultaneously, and attack the three tunnels into the hill on a pre-arranged signal.

Arthur led a loose V-formation, through trees that grew lighter around them with the coming dawn. None of them spoke, and they seemed to pass unnoticed by even the early-morning birds. They clanked and rustled through the forest, unopposed.

A roar shattered the silence.

The knight burst from behind a tree, sword already swinging.

Arthur spun around to see the enemy sword crunch down onto young Sir Elvin's neck. He drew his sword as Sir Elvin crumpled. Sir George the Younger sprang to meet the enemy, and their swords clanged. George parried a blow, parried another, but he was being driven back.

Arthur leaped forward. The new sword was in his hand, in the air, but he was too late. As the bright clean blade plunged deep into the enemy’s back, the enemy drove his sword into George’s armpit, through the gap between his armour and his mail. They collapsed together into the soggy earth at Arthur's feet.

The roar stopped.

Arthur wrenched his blade out, and swivelled on his heel.

The knights were braced, ready for more, arrayed in a rough defensive circle, but no attack came. Nothing stirred, and there was no sound, other than the desperate gasping of Sir George on the ground behind them.

The whole action had taken less than five seconds. The woods were silent again, as if violent death had not just happened.

“That was a sentry,” Sir Malcolm whispered.

“See to him, Geoffrey,” Arthur ordered, his eyes fixed on the trees. Nothing moved between the trunks. Nothing stirred the leaves. No eyes, no enemies. They were alone.

Sir Geoffrey knelt down next to Sir George. “There, there, lad. It’s all right, lad, it’s all right. Hush now, it’s all right.” Sir George seemed to be trying to speak, but no words came.

Arthur stepped back, so that he could kneel at Sir George’s side and still keep watch on the trees, but by the time he looked down into the young man’s eyes, he was already gone.

Sir Geoffrey closed the still-bright blue eyes.

“What’s that smell?” Sir Malcolm demanded.

“It’s him,” Sir Geoffrey said. He pointed to their enemy, who had been unceremoniously shoved off George. “He stinks.”

“He wears the colours of King Godric.” Arthur stepped across, and knelt by the dead man. “All right, my good chap, let’s be having a look at your face.” He pulled off the man’s helmet, and all the knights recoiled in horror.

There _was_ no face. Arthur clapped his hand over his mouth, and nearly fell backward off his heels. Geoffrey scrambled backwards on hands and knees.

There was no face, only rot. A few strands of hair still clung to the slimy skull. The eyes were gone, the lips had been drawn back from the teeth, and the jaw hung open in a silent yowl. All was green and glistened.

“It’s a walking corpse!” Sir Geoffrey croaked.

“An undead knight!”

“It’s a wraith!”

“The dragon said nothing about wraiths,” Arthur said through his hand. He climbed to his feet, and looked at the sword in his hand. It had cleaved the corpse’s armour as if it were parchment.

“It’s not a wraith,” Sir Agravain put in. “It’s a _lyk._ ” *

“What?”

“It’s a _lyk_ \- a walking corpse. Wraiths have a bit of intelligence. _Lyk_ don’t; they’re just hollow shells. It’s a corpse with someone else’s magic running inside it.”

“How do you know?”

“My mother told me,” Sir Agravain said.

Sir Agravain’s mother was not someone Arthur wanted to discuss right now. He looked at the corpse at his feet. “The witch has been building herself an army – out of _these._ ”

There was a brief silence as they all avoided articulating the dread that sprang up in every man’s heart. If they failed, this fate awaited them too.

“This one will have been a sentry,” Sir Agravain said.

“At least he didn’t get the chance to take a warning back to his friends,” Sir Malcolm said.

“He didn’t need to,” Sir Agravain said. “His mistress can look through his eyes.”

There was another of those too-long moments in which none of the knights spoke. They had lost the element of surprise. Arthur could feel the chill coming over his men, and knew he had to break it. “It won’t be helped by sitting here waiting for her. Let’s go knock on her door and spoil her breakfast.”

He led them off, deliberately picking up the pace to a brisk march and stomping noisily. After a few minutes, so did they.

… …

The hole in the hill was right where their aerial ally had said it would be. A single black hole, like a mouth, punched into the soil of the hill. The path leading up to it was stamped clear of grass. Nothing moved around there, but the mouth somehow looked as if it was waiting for them.

The smell of rot hung in the air. It was strong enough to drag at the throat, even where Arthur and his knights knelt in the undergrowth. Some of them watched the mouth, while others kept an eye on the sky for the pre-arranged signal.

All his training screamed at Arthur that he was running into an ambush, but coldly he knew he had no choice. There were no other ways in, and it was better to take their blades to the enemy. The alternative was to wait out here for the witch’s slaves to attack at a time of their choosing, and that was even worse.

The signal came. “The dragon!” Sir Geoffrey shouted, pointing at the sky.

Out of the sky, a mighty dragon appeared. It stooped like a hawk, growing larger and larger as it plummeted. Hundreds of feet above the hill, it snapped back its wings. Where it hovered, high in the air, it was visible from all three tunnel mouths. It snaked its head around, looked at the whole hill, and then opened its jaws and let loose a plume of flame.

“That’s the signal!” Arthur bellowed to his men. He surged to his feet. “Go! Go! Go!”

… …

 

The mouth of the tunnel loomed larger as he ran, his men pounding behind him. Then they were inside, in the gloom, running deeper under the hill.

Nothing met them. The stench was thick, seeming to drive out the living air. The only light was the grey glimmer from the tunnel mouth, growing dimmer behind them. Crashing against the tunnel walls, running on, Arthur discovered that the tunnel was dug from soil, not stone.

 _It’s a burrow,_ he realized.

They burst out into a chamber, an intersection of dark tunnel mouths. And out of those dark mouths, the ambush struck.

The _lyk_ sprang out, roaring, swords ready. Blades swung in the dark. Shadows collided with shadows, and steel rang. Arthur saw two of his men cut down in quick succession. He could spare no thought for them.

 _Lyk_ were pouring out of nowhere! He fought desperately, hacking and swinging. His blade sang, it swept and stabbed, hacking at his enemies, but more came, and more. Endless enemies - all making that animal roaring. He was ringed with them! Hack! Parry! Stab! Turn! Parry! Lunge!

Somebody screamed.

His back collided with Malcolm. Malcolm was putting up a desperate fight, but his blows were having no effect. Arthur tried to disengage himself. He tried to go to his help, but there were too many of them. Malcolm was swept away. Too late!

He was surrounded by _lyk_. Hack! Hack! Hack! He heard another scream – another man down. Who? Where?

He had lost track of his men in the dark. “On me!” he bellowed, “On me!” but no rally came. He fought alone.

He wrenched himself back from the swing of an axe, and stumbled backward into one of the tunnels. He tripped, and nearly fell, and already two of the _lyk_ were coming into the tunnel after him, blocking the light, looming over him.

He knew defeat then. For the first time in his life, panic clogged his brain, shut down his nerves. He ran.

He ran blindly. The tunnel was pitch-black. He collided with the walls, bouncing this way and that, tripping over fallen debris. The roaring faded behind him, and he slowed his pace to an anxious jog.

They would follow him, as soon as they knew one of the knights had escaped. He became aware that he was sobbing.

Ahead of him, gold light embossed a turn in the tunnel. He stopped.

 _Lyk_ did not need light. A mortal of some kind was around that bend.

Arthur gritted his teeth. _Lyk_ behind him, witch ahead of him. So be it. He’d already disgraced himself once; he would not do so again. He gripped the hilt of his sword in both hands, and swung around the corner.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Lyk: pronounced ‘lake,’ Afrikaans for corpse.
> 
> (Because ‘zombie’ just doesn’t sound medieval, 'wraith' was taken, and what’s the use of learning a second language at school if you can’t whip it out on wildly inappropriate occasions?)


	6. The Witch's Servant

He found himself staring at Merlin.

Merlin, alive, stood staring back. He held a flaming torch above his head, and his mouth dropped open as he recognised Arthur.

Merlin! But, oh, how changed! Arthur’s gut shuddered, even as his heart leapt up.

He was so thin that his eyes had sunk into his sockets, and the bones of his brow stood out. The jug-ears and bright eyes were unmistakeable, but the rest of his long face was covered in matted beard. His hair hung down to his collar in greasy cords, and his skin shone with a dark patina of sweat and dirt.

“Merlin?” Arthur gasped.

“Arthur!” Merlin cried at the sight of him, his face breaking up into a huge grin. He let the torch fall without letting it go out. “You came!”

He sprang forward, and Arthur opened his arms to receive him. He wrapped his arms around the long body, clutching him tightly. Merlin was alive! Under his hand, he could feel each bone in his spine standing out through his jacket like a row of buttons. And he stank.

But he did not care. “You’re alive!”

“I’m so glad you came, Arthur! I’ve been waiting for you for so long!” Merlin retreated to arms’ length, his face still wreathed in smiles.

“We’ve got to get you out of here,” Arthur said. He realized he still held the sword.

“We can’t go yet!” Merlin protested, still grinning. “You can’t leave without meeting the Queen!”

“The Queen?”

“She’s wanted to meet you for a long time, ever since I told her about you. You can’t go without being introduced. Come on, I’ll take you to her.” He seized Arthur’s free hand, and bent to retrieve the torch. Arthur found himself being tugged along, and followed, too shocked to resist.

“What Queen, Merlin?” he demanded.

“The Queen rules here! This is her castle. But you’ve chosen a bit of a bad moment to visit, Arthur. We’re under attack. But there’s nothing to worry about. These walls are as sound as Camelot’s own, and the Guard will hold them off.” He batted the burrow wall with the torch, seeming not to notice that parts of it crumbled at the blow and fell off. “This place is impregnable!”

Arthur followed, tugged in Merlin’s wake by the hot hand around his wrist, his mind racing. Merlin was no prisoner, held against his will. Arthur’s mind railed silently. Oh-shit-oh-shit-oh-no-oh-no-it’s-you-it’s-you-it’s-you…

“I’ve missed you so much, Arthur! You have no idea how much,” Merlin burbled, as they rushed through the tunnels. “The Queen said we could visit you soon anyway, but I wanted you to see this place. What do you think? Isn’t it magnificent?”

Oh-shit-oh-shit… “Yes,” Arthur choked. The dragon’s words rumbled in his mind. His own orders to his men had echoed them.

“Strike true and for the heart,” the dragon had said. “She may be hidden, so if you cannot find her, kill him. He is the source of her power, so do not hesitate.”

“Merlin – what are you doing here?”

“I live with the Queen now. We’re to be married! We’re in love! Arthur, when you talked about love, I thought you were being soppy, and I teased you, but now I understand everything! The Queen is the most wonderful, beautiful, gracious person I’ve ever met!”

“I can’t wait to meet her,” Arthur said blankly.

They were rushing through a warren of tunnels, a maze of identical intersections. Arthur kept tripping over the debris on the floor; lumps of tunnel wall, tree roots, old bones, scraps of rag. Merlin kept up a feverish pace, unerringly. He didn’t even seem to notice the dark, or the way his hair kept brushing the damp ceiling, or the fact that he had to keep stepping over piles of rubbish. Down, down, each step took them deeper under the hill.

 _Strike true, and for the heart…_

Arthur readied his grip on his sword, but he did not have time to raise it. Merlin abruptly came to a stop in the middle of an empty chamber, floored with sticky mud. “This is the banquet hall,” he said, turning in a circle and tugging Arthur around with him. “We dance here, every night. But … I don’t really dance very well,” he admitted sheepishly.

“I know, I’ve seen you,” Arthur heard himself say. He hoped that Merlin would not notice how sickly his smile was.

Briefly, Merlin’s face was his own, broken up into the old grin, so wide that his eyes disappeared. “Arthur, I wanted to ask you a favour.”

“All right.” _Strike true, and to the heart_ … but his sword arm would not obey his mind’s command.

“When we get married … I know this is short notice, but … will you be my best man? I know, it’s a cheek to ask a prince to be a commoner’s best man, but, really, there’s no-one I would rather have at my side. Will you?”

“Of course,” Arthur lied. “Anything for a friend.” Merlin didn’t seem to have noticed that the sword had not been sheathed.

“The Queen wants to have the ceremony in Camelot’s Great Hall,” Merlin confided. “We’ll take the whole Guard there, and she wants to invite Cornelius Sigan to join us.” He grinned happily. “And you, of course.”

“And Gaius?”

“Who is Gaius?” Merlin frowned.

Arthur squeezed his eyes shut. “Just someone you used to know.”

“Oh. Well, he can come to.”

“And can the dragon come too?”

Merlin’s reaction was instant. He whipped around, his face suddenly hard, the alteration so sudden and shocking that Arthur jumped. “Don’t mention that serpent to me!” Merlin hissed. “He tried to come between me and the Queen, and I sent him away! He’s a treacherous slimy snake!”

“I won’t mention him if it angers you!” The dragon’s oblique conversational style suddenly made sense. He had better not mention Gwen, or Merlin’s mother. _Strike true, and for the heart..._ he reminded himself.

“It does anger me! And it angers the Queen, even more. But being kept waiting angers the Queen too, even worse than you, Arthur. We’d better get moving.”

Arthur followed, allowing himself to be led again. The air down here was damp and still, but free of the stink of the _lyk._ He had no idea how far underground he was, but he knew he would never have been able to fight his way down here with just twenty-four knights. It would take an army, armed with shovels, to dig the witch out, and all the while the _lyk_ would be coming up to meet them.

There was no other way to get down here, other than the way he was going now, he realized. He alone had the only hope of success.

He wondered how the assaults were going. He could do nothing for them, other than what he was doing. Still, they were his men, they had followed him willingly to this place, and he felt guilty for leaving them.

Then he realized that to find out how they fared, he had only to ask. “Merlin,” he said. “How are the attacks on the … the castle walls?”

Merlin stopped, so that Arthur almost walked into his back. He turned his eyes upward. “Two of the assault parties are all dead, and one is nearly all dead, but the survivors have run off. My Guards will go and fetch them. And then I’ll ask them if they want to serve the Queen, and they’ll say yes. They always say yes.”

“Your Guards?” Arthur asked. “You made them?”

“The Queen showed me how. She’s very clever.”

“You have magic, Merlin?”

Merlin stopped and turned to face him. His face was apologetic. “I’m sorry I couldn’t tell you. Arthur, I wanted to tell you, really, but I couldn’t. It had to stay a secret. You do understand, don’t you?”

“It’s not your fault,” Arthur said. “You couldn’t help it.”

“But it doesn’t have to be a secret any more, the Queen says. Everyone can know, now. It’s not that I minded being a servant, you know, it’s just – I’d rather people knew me for who I really am.”

“I know.”

Merlin nodded, sombrely, and they walked on.

“Here we are,” he said. “The royal throne room.”


	7. The Queen

To Arthur’s eyes, it was just a cavernous hole, dark and cold. The torchlight did no more than send malevolent ghosts fluttering around the muddy walls. Lost in the gloom on the other side was a chair, with a pale figure slumped in it.

“My Queen!” Merlin called cheerily, releasing Arthur’s wrist and striding out across the rough floor.

The figure slumped in the chair shifted. The voice that spoke was a low rasping croak. “Why have you brought an enemy into my presence, Merlin?”

“This is no enemy, my Queen. This is Prince Arthur of Camelot. He’s my best friend. He’s come to ally with us.” He turned, and beckoned to Arthur, smiling happily. “Come and meet the love of my life, Arthur.”

Arthur approached, stepping carefully over the rubbish-strewn floor, and got his first good look at Merlin’s Queen.

She sagged back in the chair, in a grey sleeveless shift, through which he could see her breastbone and empty, drooping breasts. She was old, but it was impossible to tell how old, under a layer of filth that had left her wrinkled skin an ashen grey. Her head seemed to wobble on a sunken neck, her scalp bare under a mere prickle of hairs. Her jaw made a constant maunching motion, round and round and round.

Merlin approached her, and knelt in front of her. She raised a knobbled hand, and adoringly, worshipfully, he kissed it. She did not look at him, her eyes wandering instead toward Arthur.

Arthur stood straight, as she examined him distantly, without joy or interest. His eyes, roaming the empty space around him, noticed two more _lyk_ standing amidst the trash behind her chair. These two were older; dry bones, all flesh long gone. They stood with their swords raised, in a pose that no living guard could maintain, but of course these guards had no muscles to get tired.

“Bow to me,” she rasped.

“No, thank you,” he said, cold shudders of disgust crawling up his back.

“Arthur,” Merlin said earnestly. “I really think you’d better bow to her.”

“No,” he said, flatly. _Strike true,_ he thought, taking a better grip on the sword. He would have to be fast, before the _lyk_ could move.

Merlin sighed, as if exasperated by a child. “Bow, Dollop-head,” he said, and Arthur felt a force seize hold of his back and shoulders. He fought it, but it was implacable. He was pushed down, artificially bent double like a child’s doll, so that he glared helplessly at his boots.

When the pressure went away, he popped up, humiliated, and more frightened than before. He would have to be even faster than he thought. He would have to strike faster than the _lyk, and_ Merlin. He hadn’t truly believed it possible before, but the demonstration had driven all denial from him. His fear sang icily in his blood.

“Prince Arthur of Camelot,” she said. _Maunch, maunch,_ went her mouth. “Did your father send you?”

“Yes,” he lied. “He sent me out to … as an envoy. He sent me to find out how strong you were … and to ask if he and you could form an alliance.”

“An alliance?” she asked. For the first time, her gaze sharpened.

“We have heard of the prowess of your armies,” he said. “They are proving a formidable force. And, of course, you have Merlin here, to vouch for your bona fides. Let us not be enemies.”

“Peace had always been Uther’s desire,” Merlin pointed out. He’d taken up a position alongside the throne, his elbow hooked cosily on the arm-rest.

“And on a personal level, I had to come to see for myself the woman who has captured Merlin’s heart so completely he forgot to come back to Gaius and myself.” He could feel his stomach shaking, and hoped it wasn’t echoing from his belly to his voice.

“Who is Gaius?” Merlin asked, genuinely puzzled once again. “I feel like I know that name.”

Arthur seized his chance. “And Gwen. She says she missed you terribly.  
She cried, when you left. And Sir Leon says Camelot isn’t the same without tripping over you all the time.”

“Gwen?”

The Queen shifted irritably in her chair. “Merlin! Go up to the castle walls and make sure the Guard is working.”

“My Queen,” Merlin said. “We have won. Our victory is complete. I can begin recruiting the new men at a later stage.”

“Go now!” she barked.

Merlin bowed, reluctantly. “I will leave you the torch, Arthur,” he said, “The dark takes some getting used to.” He put the torch into a cracked vase, and left the chamber, walking without hesitation into the dark.

Somehow, in spite of everything else, Arthur shivered to see him go.

“Tell me more, Prince Arthur,” the Queen ordered.

He swallowed. “I knew Merlin was swept off his feet,” he said. “But now that I see you, I am taken aback. Never could I have foreseen such beauty.”

She liked that. The maunching was interrupted by a smile. “He is going to marry me,” she simpered.

Arthur knelt. One hand laid the sword down flat onto the ground, careful not to let go of the hilt. The ground was cold against the backs of his fingers. “My Queen. Would you do me the honour, the very _great_ honour, of solemnifying our alliance with your blessing?” he asked. He bowed his head, gazing at the toe of his own boot planted in the dirt.

“What blessing?”

“By placing your royal hand upon my head, and accepting a vow of alliance? It would realize our agreement. In the ancient style of the … of the Merovingian kings?” He was going to overdo it, he thought, and shut his mouth before he could babble.

There was a short silence from the chair. He dared not look up. “My Queen?” he prompted, after a few moments.

“I have never had a prince as a servant before,” she said. He heard her grunt as she heaved herself up out of the chair.

He stared at his own shadow, wavering in the torchlight. The sword hilt was heavy in his fingers. Her feet shuffled closer. He could smell her, hear her breathing. The maunching made a noise – _mmh, umh, mmh, umh._

He waited until the sound was right above him.

He waited until the claws touched his hair.

 _Now!_ He drove himself up, _up!_ A single violent heave from his rearward leg, pivoting around his knee like a sprinter. All his muscles driving him upward, up, and into her.

 _Strike true!_

The point punched into her belly, and kept going, biting into her like a snake. It sank itself almost to the hilt in the grubby shift.

She screamed. Hot blood spurted, and claws raked at his neck. But even as he rose, she was collapsing, falling backward. Her weight dragged the sword with her, so that he staggered, and almost fell with her. He clung to the hilt, desperately, trying to free it before the _lyk_ came for him.

She collapsed alongside her throne, bleeding and screaming. His eyes were already on the _lyk,_ as he twisted the sword savagely to wrench it clear, feeling her fists beat at the blade.

He saw them move, even as the blade came free. Their sightless skulls turned to face him, both rusted swords rising. They took a synchronised step toward him. He brought his bloody blade up, his arm aching, but he was ready for them.

Then, soundlessly, they disintegrated, falling apart into dry bones, tumbling into a heap on the ground. Just bones.

The Queen lay motionless on her back in the rubbish beside her throne, her body twisted. The filthy nightshift was black with blood.

It was over.

Arthur stood and stared at her, panting. The blood running off the tip of the sword tapped quietly on the floor. The torch guttered, but there was no other sound, so deep below the hill.

He was alone, trapped far underground, with no idea how to get out. The darkness of the hole seemed to close in around his head, pressing in on him.

Even as the first of the claustrophobia rose in his mind, the floor shuddered.

A clump of soil and dust fell from the ceiling, then more. He had to get out. He had to get out of here _now_ before the whole warren caved in! He raised the sword in his aching arm, snatched up the torch, and ran for the tunnel through which Merlin had disappeared.


	8. Withdrawal

Arthur ran up the tunnel, holding the torch before him. The tunnel wound upward in a loose spiral. Around one corner, he almost collided with the figure hurrying the other way in the dark.

“Merlin!” he shouted.

Merlin’s filthy face was streaked with tears that sparkled in the torchlight. “What happened, Arthur? Where are we?”

Thank the gods, Merlin was lucid again. “We’re in a tunnel under a hill. We need to get out – I think this place is caving in.”

Merlin’s eyes were clear, and he saw where he was. Thank the gods, the spell was broken - and then Merlin said, “Where is my Queen? Where did the castle go? How did we get here?” He stared around himself, dazed.

“Merlin, we need to get out of here, right now!”

“Something happened to the Queen, didn’t it?” He clutched at Arthur’s breastplate with his fingers. “I saw her _lyk_ collapse. What happened to my Queen? Tell me!”

Arthur sucked in his breath. “The Queen is dead,” he said. “One of the enemy knights sneaked in past your Guards and killed her.”

Merlin’s eyes squeezed shut in agony. “No-o,” he croaked, in a voice as high as a creaky door. “No-o-o, my Queen, my Queen.” He fell back against the wall, dislodging clumps of suddenly soft soil. More pattered from the ceiling, and the whole tunnel quivered.

“Merlin! Listen to me! Can you keep the ceiling up?”

“No,” Merlin gulped. “Only the Queen could do that. She was a barrow-hag. She was my Queen, my Queen, _oh-h-h-h._ ”

“Merlin! We need to get out of here. The roof is coming in!” He put the sword under one arm, and used his free hand to grip Merlin’s shirt and shake him. “Merlin!”

Merlin’s head wobbled loosely, and he opened his eyes. “I can get us out of here. I know the way. I can’t let you die in here. It’s not _your_ destiny to die in a cave.”

Arthur shoved at his shoulder. “Go on!”

It was almost like old times, running for his life with Merlin. But this time, he was careful to run behind Merlin, his sword still in his hand despite the burning of his arm muscles. At any moment Merlin might remember exactly which knight he’d left alone with his blasted Queen, and turn on him.

But Merlin led him, running on and on through the winding tunnels. They were climbing now, endlessly, and his thighs began to burn. Stagnant water was oozing out of the walls, so that the ‘banquet hall’ was already ankle deep. Rats were streaking past their pounding feet, appearing and disappearing like shadows.

“Merlin!” he shouted, “Where are the knights?”

“The live ones, or the dead?”

“The _live_ ones, damn it!”

“They ran away. I sent the _lyk_ out to get them.”

“Call the _lyk_ back! Call them all back into the tunnels!”

“Why?”

“Just call them back, Merlin!” If they had to be buried alive in here, at least there wouldn’t be any more walking dead wandering around the forests.

“All right, they’re coming! They’re coming!”

They ran on.

Merlin, in the lead, tripped. He sprawled bodily to the ground, the torch falling and dying.

They were in darkness, utter darkness. Arthur stopped, managing not to fall over. “Merlin?” he asked. He could hear grunts and scrabbling sounds, and felt with his free hand towards where Merlin had been.

“I’m all right. I’m all right. Here’s the torch.” Merlin lowered his voice, and murmured something. Flame fluttered over the head of the torch, glowing off his open palm and fingers, and for a moment Arthur saw the same glow in his eyes.

Magic; and wouldn’t it have been _nice_ to find out about that in another place, and another time? “Which way, Merlin?” he barked.

Merlin looked right and left. “Uh, I don’t really know.”

Arthur restrained himself from shaking him again. “What do you mean, you don’t know? You must know the way out, you live here!”

“I haven’t set foot in these tunnels since I came in here looking for the witch under the hill!”

“You’ve been living down here for six months!”

“I haven’t! I’ve been in the castle with the Queen! And even then I never came out onto the battlements. How did I get here? How did you get here? Where are we?”

Clumps of soil fell out of the ceiling, a rain of mud. “Just pick a direction!” Arthur shouted. “Whatever looks the nicest!”

Merlin looked left and right. “Uh.” He turned in a circle. “Uh. I think… I think … that way.” He turned and led off up the left-hand tunnel, and they ran on.

Around the next corner, the light picked up a human figure and the gleam of armour. Arthur’s heart jumped, thinking it was a _lyk_ , but the limping figure was Sir Agravain. He was covered in blood, and alone.

“Sire!” he greeted, and his eyes flew to Merlin. “Who …?”

“No time! The roof is coming in!” Arthur said. “Lead on, Merlin.”

Merlin raised the torch again, and they ran on, with Sir Agravain now picking up the rear.

They wove through endless darkness. The ground was shaking regularly under them, deep groans echoing through the fabric of the hill, and soil was pattering down on them like a solid rain. They burst into an intersection, a place Arthur recognised.

The place was full of the dead. His own lay on the ground, where they had fallen; a grievous tableau in the flickering torchlight that Arthur thought he would never forget. Older ones, some of them also in Camelot red, stood about, motionless. They were waiting for them. The way out was blocked. And the roof was coming down...

Behind him, he heard Agravain groan. Arthur raised his aching sword arm, ready to try to hack his way through, but Merlin solved the problem.

“Get out of my way!” he shouted, without breaking stride, and plunged headlong into the mass of standing dead.

They parted on either side of him, falling back from their master’s passage like a bow wave. Arthur and Agravain pounded after him, leaving the dead behind, and burst out into the open air.

They fled into sunlight that hurt their eyes, blinding them, but hammered on down the flanks of the hill. The ground rumbled ominously, and the leaves on the bushes rattled urgently on their branches.

Arthur, running last, could see how Agravain was lurching on a wounded knee, and how exhaustion was making Merlin’s knees wobble at each step. “That’s enough!” he shouted, as soon as the ground was level. “Hold up!”

Agravain came to a hopping halt, gratefully, and Merlin bend double, holding his knees and wheezing shrilly.

“Merlin,” Arthur asked, “Are we far enough from the tunnels?” The ground was shaking, a high-frequency vibration punctuated by the occasional jolt.

Merlin nodded, his eyes squeezed shut. Arthur got his first look at his face in clear light. Under the beard and the dirt, his face was as pale as chalk, and skeletally thin. He looked half-starved; no wonder his knees were buckling.

A harder jolt than most made all three of them catch their balance. Merlin looked up. “Throne room roof,” he wheezed.

“Won’t be long now,” Agravain panted. “I hope the others all got out.”

“The others are all dead, or already fled,” Arthur said. He found he was still holding the useless torch, and beat it out on the ground.

The earth rumbled. The bushes and the tops of the trees shivered, as if terrified at the vastness of the changes wrought in the land. Merlin’s legs gave way under him, and dumped him abruptly onto the ground.

“It’s going!” Agravain shouted, pointing.


	9. Counting the Cost

The land seemed to cringe under them as if taken by a sudden spasmodic chill. Arthur turned in the direction of Sir Agravain’s pointing finger.

High above, the hill was moving as if it was alive. The crest sank, shuddering, concertina-ing down into itself, in a series of staccato jolts. It went slowly at first, then faster, and faster, the rhythm of the jolts accelerating, until finally the whole mass of earth gave way and collapsed into a great cloud of dust. The sound was deafening, a rising roar like an ocean swell. The echoing jolts of the collapsing hill resonated out into the forest, and the knights fell to their knees, clutching at the ground.

When the noise and motion died away, there was no hill.

The sininster hill was gone, sunk back into its hollow core like a fallen cake. Where it had been was only a gentle smooth-sided mound, topped with damaged bushes.

“It’s a barrow!” Agravain coughed, astonished.

“She was a barrow-hag,” Arthur said, climbing to his feet and looking around.

The clouds of dust were already settling, spreading and dissipating in the breeze. They revealed the tops of the trees visible on the other side of the mound. The air was clean and pure, as if all the stench of the place had been sucked down into the earth with the witch.

Merlin put his head into his hands, and sagged slowly over until he lay on his knees and elbows.

“I take it she’s dead?” Agravain said, watching Merlin closely.

“She is. I killed her. How did you escape the _lyk_?”

“My mother’s amulet,” Agravain explained, tapping his breastplate. “It hides me from being scried by magic. I ran away, and it hid me from the _lyk._ Sire, this amulet also warns me when I’m in the presence of sorcerers. This man…”

“This is my servant, Merlin.”

“Sire, I don’t know if you know this, but … He’s a sorcerer.”

“He’s not just a sorcerer, he’s _the_ sorcerer. The witch had him under an enchantment.”

Merlin was still on the ground, seemingly paying them no attention. He moaned to himself, “Oh, my Queen, my Queen. The _lyk_ will have to be your honour guard now.”

Arthur and Agravain watched him. “I would have _thought_ the spell would be broken now,” Arthur said, doubtfully. “The witch certainly is dead. I saw that with my own eyes.”

“My mother said that sometimes the after-effects of a spell can take a while to fade away,” Agravain said. “Especially if the victim himself really wishes the enchantment was true, in his heart of hearts. He’ll shake it off, in a bit.”

Arthur shook of his doubts at just how much he was relying on what Agravain’s mother said, whoever she was. He knelt next to Merlin, and put his hand on the thin shoulder, feeling the sharp edge of his bones through his jacket. “Merlin, come on now. We need to get moving. We need to go and find the other knights.”

Merlin rolled over, and looked up at him. His eyes were red and swollen with tears. “My love is dead, Arthur.”

“I know, Merlin. Your Queen is dead, but you can’t stay here. You need to come home to Camelot with me. Come on, Merlin. Here, let me help you up.”

Merlin got up on his knees, and Arthur lent him the strength to get him to his feet. He jerked his head at Agravain to lead the way, and encouraged Merlin into a wobbling walk.

“I loved her, Arthur,” Merlin said, his voice thin. “I was going to marry her, and be her Court Magician, and her consort. Openly, in front of all the world.”

“I know.” Arthur, looking at Merlin, found he felt no thirst for vengeance, only pity. It was impossible to reconcile the fact of his dead knights with the bony wreck shambling alongside him. Any anger he might have felt had sunk into the ground with the hill.

After about half-an-hour of limping slowly around the barrow, they came across Sir Leon, leading three knights.

“Sir Leon! I’m glad I’ve found you!” So Sir Leon’s assault had been the one which ran away … which meant that Sir George the Elder’s men were the ones who were all dead. Arthur felt a pang of guilt at his relief that Sir Leon lived, instead of the prickly George.

“My lord,” Sir Leon greeted him tiredly. His face and beard were bloody, and his eyes went over Arthur’s shoulder. “Where are the others?”

“We are all that is left,” Arthur said grimly. “Sir George and his men are all dead.”

“We have lost, then,” Sir Leon said, shaking his head. He was not usually an expressive man, but he looked close to silent tears. “I’m sorry, my lord. We tried our best. We did everything we could, but there were just too many of them. I’m so sorry, my lord, we tried ...”

Arthur stopped him, with a hand on his shoulder. “Sir Leon. We have not lost. The witch is dead. We have _won._ ”

But at what cost! Twenty-four men, brave knights of Camelot, had attacked those tunnels, and just these six had come out again. They had been utterly routed, and were nearly wiped out - but for the smallest chance - by the man who stood silently just behind Arthur.

As if hearing Arthur’s thoughts, Sir Leon’s gaze had gone to Merlin. “Who is this?” he asked.

“Don’t you remember my servant, Merlin?”

Sir Leon blinked, startled, and then his eyes opened wide in horror. “Merlin! Gods above! What happened to you?”

“I don’t know,” Merlin mumbled, half to himself, his head bowed. “I don’t remember. I went underground looking to fight the barrow-hag, and then - the Queen was there. I don’t know. The Castle … I think I fell in love. I don’t know…” He rubbed at his face.

Sir Leon could not be expected to understand such a disjointed account, so Arthur explained for him. “He’s been under the witch’s enchantment the whole time. He’s the sorcerer. We’ve been fighting him.”

“What?” Sir Leon asked, as if the explanation made no more sense than Merlin’s ramblings. “Merlin, a sorcerer? That’s impossible!”

“I’m sorry,” Merlin mumbled.

“Unfortunately, I’ve seen the evidence with my own eyes,” Arthur said.

One of the knights slowly drew his sword. “If he’s the cause of all this, I suggest we deal with him right now…”

His companions rumbled agreement. “We can save the King the time and bother of a trial…”

“No!” Arthur snapped.

They stared at him. All of them, including Merlin, who blinked as if he’d just woken up.

“Merlin is not going to be executed. You want to know why?” He pointed at the sky. “We know there’s at least one dragon left – but we _don’t_ know if there are any more dragonlords. We kill him, and that thing up there will take his _weregild_ out of _my_ city! And I am _not_ going to let that happen. He lives, and he comes back to Camelot with us.”

“Yes, Sire,” the knight agreed, abashed, his eyes on the sky as if expected to see the dragon already diving for him. The sword slid slowly back into its scabbard.

“Your father will execute him, my lord,” Sir Leon said, frowning worriedly.

“My father will see sense. He understands realpolitik as well as I do. Merlin is our hostage to the dragon’s good behaviour.”

Even as he spoke, Arthur knew that his words were only half the truth. The other half was more complex. He found that he wanted, more than anything else, to ride back to Camelot, and restore to a grieving old man the source of all his pride and happiness. It would not bring back his dead knights, but it might redeem just a little bit of the horror of this entire mission. Obviously, he could never explain that to his men.

“I’m sorry,” Merlin mumbled again, for no reason that Arthur could see.

“Shut up, Merlin. Right! There’s no longer any reason for us to hang around here. Is there? Enemy defeated; job well done; time to go home. Sir Leon, you will take the lead. Sir Callum, support Sir Edward. Sir Agravain, you warn me if you detect any … funny feelings.”

“Yes, Sire.”

“Merlin, you walk where I can see you.”


	10. The Spell Breaks

The march back to their horses took as long as the night march out, thanks to the pace set by their wounded, and the infirm Merlin.

When they reached the camp, there was work for Arthur, organising his much-reduced command. The wounded had to be cared for. Travel arrangements had to be made. He sent a rider galloping back to the village of Outer Haghorn with news. He also sent some of the squires with directions to retrieve the bodies of Sir Elvin and Sir George the Younger. They alone would go to lie with the honoured dead of Camelot, unlike all the others who would lie buried forever with the witch.

As soon as they reached the camp, Merlin had sagged to the ground, as if his strength had barely lasted this long, and the last of it had now completely leached from him. After dealing with the immediate needs of his men, Arthur went to check on him.

Merlin looked up at him, from the log he was sitting on, with an expression of childlike amazement. “I’m hungry,” he said.

“I’m not surprised,” Arthur said, and summoned a squire to find some food for him; not too much food, and as bland as possible. He watched Merlin, standing over him with his arms folded, until a slice of bread and a flask of water were put into his hands.

“Now remember,” Arthur told him, “Eat it very slowly, and chew thoroughly. Your stomach needs time to adjust to having food in it again.” He had heard tales of shipwrecked sailors eating their saviours’ food too rapidly, and dying from it.

“My stomach’s had plenty of food it it,” Merlin protested. “I’ve been eating like a prince.”

Arthur looked at the sharp cheekbones that stood out of his face like seashells. “Merlin,” he said carefully. “You haven’t been eating. You’re half-starved.”

“Oh, no,” Merlin dismissed his words with a wave of the bread. “The Queen and I ate very well. We had huge dinners every night. I’ve never eaten so much in my life.” He bit off a piece of the bread, and chewed it. “She took very good care of me,” he said, with his mouth full, and washed the bread down with a sip of water. “This dry stuff is hard to swallow,” he said, a little disgruntled.

Arthur shook his head. Merely talking to him was hopeless. He went over to his saddle, unbuckled his saddlebags, and dug around inside until he found his toiletbag. He unrolled it, and took out his shaving mirror.

He took the mirror back to where Merlin sat, finishing the last of his slice of bread.

“Merlin,” he said, going down on one knee facing him. “I want you to see what you look like.” He held out the mirror, and after a moment’s hesitation, Merlin took it.

For almost a minute, Merlin stared at himself in silence, his eyes wide.

Slowly, he raised his hand to his face. He patted his beard with the tips of his fingers. “When did I grow a beard?” he whispered. “I don’t remember growing a beard. Arthur, I don’t understand. That’s not me. That can’t be me. I don’t look like that.”

“Look at your hands,” Arthur said. “Look at your legs. You’re skin and bone, Merlin.”

“But I don’t understand. I ate lots of food. I remember eating it. How did I get so…” His words trailed off.

“It was an illusion, Merlin. You’ve been under an enchantment. None of it was real.” Arthur felt ill. He would rather break the news to Merlin himself than have anyone else do it, but he wished he did not have to.

“I don’t understand. It was real. I lived in a castle, with the Queen, and I was her court sorcerer, and she loved me.” He looked up at Arthur, and then back at the mirror. “But I don’t remember growing a beard.” He tugged at the beard, as if not wanting to believe that was really attached to his face.

“Look at yourself. That’s what’s real. I don’t know what you’ve been doing down there, but you have not been having huge dinners.”

“But I don’t understand. She said she loved me.” Merlin was staring at his reflection, with the corners of his mouth going up and down, as if he didn’t know what expression suited.

“She lied, Merlin. She was a witch, and she tricked you. She wanted to use you. You don’t love someone, and let them starve.”

Merlin’s fingers came up again, touching his face as if exploring his own bones. “This is real,” he said, his eyes in the mirror. “And you are real. But that was real, too. I don’t know what’s real, and what isn’t. But this is real, isn’t it? You’re real?”

“Well, I certainly prefer to believe that I’m real,” Arthur said. “And we’re going back to the real Camelot, and the real Gaius will soon sort you out.”

Merlin looked up, his eyes wide. “Gaius?” he cried. “Gaius is alive!”

“Of course he’s alive. He misses you terribly.”

“She told me he was dead!”

“She was lying, Merlin.”

Merlin put the mirror in his lap. He folded his arms tightly, so that his hands were squeezed under his armpits. His head drooped, his lips trembling. Arthur had the feeling that tears were going to roll at any moment.

“I’ll fetch you a comb, shall I? And some soap. And then you can clean yourself up a bit. That will make you feel better, eh?” He got up, gave the top of Merlin’s bowed head a pat, and walked away to give him a minute of privacy.

Sir Agravain was sitting near Arthur’s saddle, nursing a freshly-stitched leg. “How did you know to do that, Sire?” he asked.

“Do what?” Arthur would give Merlin his own washing things. He could get more.

“Mirrors are good for seeing through enchantments. They’re almost as effective as looking through a stone with a hole in it, for seeing the truth of things.”

“Just a lucky guess. But I don’t understand. If the enchantment was so strong it’s still sticking to him even now, why did he recognise me at all?”

Sir Agravain shrugged. “Perhaps his connection to you runs deeper than the witch realized? You know him better than anyone else, after all.”

“I suppose so,” Arthur said. He wondered how well he did know Merlin, now that magic had suddenly surfaced within him.

Or … _had_ it only surfaced now? Gaius was the only other sorcerer he knew. Perhaps Merlin had not come to Camelot to be the assistant to a _physician,_ at all?

Suddenly, some of his past combat engagements made a bit more tactical sense. He had always wondered how he had been able to strike a mortal blow to the Questing Beast, after being knocked unconscious.

He turned around to look at Merlin, just in time to see him lurch to his feet.

“Oh, Gods above, no!” Merlin said, swaying. Both hands were pressed to his face, his eyes staring wildly between his fingers. “Oh, Gods above! I killed forty-nine people!”

The men around the camp were all staring at Merlin in fright. The sorcerer was behaving oddly – and loudly.

“Spell’s just broken,” Agravain observed.

“Merlin!” Arthur got to his feet, and began to walk toward him. “It’s all right!”

But Merlin sprang backward. “I killed forty-nine people!” he wailed, stumbling backwards away from them all. He turned, and bolted between the trees.

“Merlin!” Arthur shouted, and leaped after him. He heard Agravain behind him shout a command to leave them alone, even as he raced after Merlin.

Weak and wobbling as he was, even in a state of panic Merlin was no match for Arthur. Arthur caught up to him within a few yards, and clamped his fingers onto Merlin’s shoulder.

“Let me go!” Merlin screamed, as Arthur spun him around. He thrashed blindly, but it was easy to thrust his back against a convenient tree, and easy to restrain him. Merlin tried to shove Arthur’s hands from his shoulders, but he was as weak as a kitten. “Arthur, you don’t know what I’ve done!” he shouted into Arthur’s face.

“I know what you did!” Arthur shouted back. “I saw it myself!”

“I killed forty-nine people! Forty-nine! I killed them! How could I do that? How could I _do_ that! Arthur, I killed forty-nine people!”

“You were under an enchantment, Merlin. You didn’t know what you were doing. You weren’t in your right mind!”

“I killed Sir Bryand!” Merlin cried. His eyes were wet with tears. “How could I do that? I _liked_ Sir Bryand! He recognized me, and he let me walk right up to him, and I killed him!”

“It wasn’t you,” Arthur said. “It was the magic in you. You’re not a monster, Merlin, you were under an enchantment.”

“How could I do that? What was I thinking? I should have known better, Arthur! I should have known something was wrong! Why didn’t I stop and think? Forty-nine people are dead, because I didn’t think! I just let her tell me what to do!”

“It’s not your fault, Merlin! It’s not your fault!”

“It _is_ my fault. I used my magic for evil.” Abruptly, Arthur found that instead of holding Merlin pinned against the tree, he was holding Merlin up. He let go, and Merlin’s legs doubled up under him so that he slid to the ground.

“I used my magic for evil. I’m no better than Cornelius Sigan.”

“Nonsense.” Rather than loom over Merlin like an avenging angel, he squatted on his heels, and put his hand on Merlin’s shoulder. “You were born with a curse, but you’re not evil. _Magic_ is evil, not you.”

“No! No, it isn’t!” Merlin shook his head, adamant in spite of his tears. “I refuse to believe that. Magic is not evil. Magic is just a tool, like fire, or a sword. But if you have it, you’re supposed to use it to _help_ other people, not to kill them! I should have known better. I should have known it was wrong.” He wiped his eyes on his sleeve. “Gaius taught me better than that!”

“Look, it doesn’t matter if your magic is a curse or a tool,” Arthur said. “She turned _you_ into a tool. As far as she was concerned, you were just another _lyk_ to her.”

Merlin wiped his eyes again, and sniffed. “She turned me into a weapon, and then she turned me on Camelot. She … she had all these mad ideas, and they sounded so … sensible, and so nice, and so perfect. And I lapped it up like a fool.” Merlin sniffed, wetly, and gave in to the urge to wipe his nose on his sleeve. It didn’t matter much – that jacket was already good for nothing but the fireplace.

They sat like that against the tree in silence, while Merlin’s harsh breathing slowed, and his tears dried.

Arthur looked at the skinny shape in front of him, sitting hunched against the tree. He looked small and frail and weak, but he was not. He was, in the dragon’s words, the most powerful sorcerer in the land.

Arthur could not afford - _Camelot_ could not afford – to have such a powerful sorcerer as Merlin wander off on his own. Whoever had command of Merlin, had a powerful weapon, and that would upset the whole power balance of Albion. Merlin could not be killed. He could also not be allowed to go free.

Arthur squeezed Merlin’s shoulder. “Merlin. Listen to me.”

“I’m listening.”

“If the dragon hadn’t picked me up, you would have attacked Camelot.”

“I know. I _know!_ ”

“Merlin, I can’t let that happen again.”

Merlin went still, gazing back at him, his eyes wide and deep with shock. “You’re going to execute me,” he said. “I can’t blame you. I’m so sorry, Arthur.”

“No! No, I’m not going to execute you.” He could not raise his sword to Merlin underground; he could not do so now, either, in cold blood. “I would never hurt you.”

“You think magic is evil.”

“I think magic _corrupts,_ but I’m still not going to execute you. You won’t be harmed, I promise.”

“What … what are you going to do with me?” Merlin straightened his back against the tree, looking worried.

There really was only one thing he could do. “I have only one option. Merlin…” Suddenly, it was not enough to put one hand on Merlin’s shoulder. He put his hands around Merlin’s face, so that the skinny face looked back at him between his own black gloves. “I can never let you go. I’m taking you back to Camelot with me, and once you get there … you will never be allowed to leave.”

“Never?”

“Never. You’re going to spend the rest of your life right where I can see you.”

“If you lock me up in the dungeon I might as well still be under the hill,” Merlin said, in despair. “I’ll be a prisoner!”

“I won’t lock you up in the dungeon. You won’t be a prisoner, just … a guest who doesn’t leave. Think of it as … as a penance. For the forty-nine dead. The service you gave the Queen, _I_ want from you. I want you at my side, always, as long as we both live. I want your magic, at my command, Merlin.”

Merlin shook his head, still held between Arthur’s hands. “Not at your command. At your service, yes, but not at your command. I nearly unleashed a tyrant on Albion once, I won’t do it again. I won’t be anyone’s weapon.”

“Your service is all I ask. And in return … Magic corrupts. It’s dangerous. You’re playing with fire, Merlin. Some day, _you’ll_ become dangerous, but … maybe you won’t. Gaius hasn’t, has he? Maybe, if I keep my eye on you, you can escape your fate?”

Merlin’s eyes searched Arthur’s face. For a moment, Arthur wondered what he saw. He didn’t seem upset at the idea of spending the rest of his life glued to Arthur Pendragon, merely thoughtful. “That’s very caring of you, Arthur.”

“You are a good person, Merlin, magic or no magic, and I will help you stay that way.” Arthur let go of Merlin’s face. He put his hands down, and clasped Merlin’s. “So, what is your answer, Merlin? Will you come with me, and be my sorcerer?”

Merlin nodded, and for the first time since they had left the tunnels, he smiled. “I want that more than anything. Yes. Now, and forever, and gladly.”


End file.
